A Simple Verb
by dancedude09
Summary: A simple verb can carry a heavy weight.
1. Leave

**A/N:** I haven't quite decided if this is going to be just a one-parter or more yet. Idk. I guess it depends on the response I get. Thanks for reading, and I don't own anything.

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**L E A V E**

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Of course, I hadn't wanted it to be this way. I hadn't wanted years of friendship, of love, to crumble pathetically. I had wanted the storybook romance, the sort of relationship that causes jealousy in others. I had wanted what my parents had.

But I'm in the middle of haphazardly packing a bag, my heart nearly screaming with the pain of it all, and I can't remember what was keeping us together in the first place.

It's that Veela blood, my father would say. Always giving me a temper and wild, uncontrollable emotions. Normally, I might agree.

Tears are streaming down my face much faster than I can swipe at them. I stumble over the bed sheets as I cross the room; even Veela blood cannot counteract my clumsiness. I toss a few of my jumpers in the bag, along with the picture of my family which rests on the shelf next to his cologne.

He's telling me that I am being foolish, that I shouldn't bother packing, that we both know I'll be back. But underneath the fierce pain in my chest, I somehow understand that walking out of this house is the end of everything between us. It aches much worse than I could possibly communicate to him, to anyone.

He tries to grab my arm, but I wrench it away. Our eyes lock, and his face contorts from his usual, relaxed, confident one to one of shock and worry, immediately. Seconds later, his hair is a dingy brown, and I can tell that he too knows that this is the end.

My chest heaves once more and a new round of tears pours hot and furiously down my cheeks. He's trying to block me from the wardrobe; he's pulling things from my hands, telling me that I can't leave here, can't leave him.

I run my hands through my blonde hair, calming myself enough to remember to search for the source of our end: the Department of International Magical Cooperation letters, the letters which send me to France for a year, the letters which will make my career, the letters which he hid from me for nearly a month.

It all sounds too ridiculous to process. A year in France is the equivalent of eight Auror expeditions time-wise, which is the same number of journeys that he has embarked on since he was accepted into the Auror program. As little as I had wanted to leave him, I knew when I found the letters that I needed to go. I had needed him to support me just as much, but I think that may be futile now. Why, I want to ask him, couldn't he deal with this one trip when I had dealt with so many of his?

I ask him this now, and he doesn't have an answer for me. All he has to say is, "Don't go."

I am fumbling with the fastenings on my bag, forgetting that a simple charm would clasp it together with ease. My mother would call this stalling; she would say that if I really wanted to leave, I would have. But really, my mother is French and perfect and doesn't understand that more than anything, I want him to give me a reason, any reason, to stay.

He's crying, I think. I can hear the pain in his voice. I don't turn to look at him. Instead, I take in the sight of the cramped apartment that we have shared as if committing it to memory. I know that this will be the last time I will see it.

I tell him goodbye and with my eyes closed, I give him a kiss on the cheek and leave, taking with me a bit of clothing, memories of his blue hair, and the letters that probably killed us.


	2. Grieve

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**G R I E V E**

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I was the last to leave the Burrow this morning. Even Lily and Hugo, who both slept past noon, were dressed, fed and rushed out of the house before I decided on showering.

I didn't want to come today; I didn't want to make this real. It would be easier, I think, if I had never came home, if Papa hadn't ambushed me, if I had been given time to think of the alternative, yet, here I am.

The cemetery gate squeaks as I push it open.

He looks solemn. His hair is the same brown that it was the last time I saw him: It's his natural color, I know, but somehow, it only suits him when he's smiling.

My Uncle Harry is talking to him, near the casket, but then, his eyes meet mine, and I can tell he no longer is listening to his godfather. He takes a step towards me, giving me a weak smile as I stop in front of him.

"You're the only one I wanted to see," he whispers. His voice is hoarse and thick, and I know he's been crying recently. I practically collapse into his chest, breathing in his familiar cologne. His arms fold around me, his hands entangling in my hair.

I am crying now.

It's hard to do this–to have him like this. If I had just sat in the back and listened to the service, things wouldn't have instantly landed us in a messy, confusing territory. But, really, it's him and it's me and that was never really an option.

He's soothing me, rubbing my back and whispering things: He never liked it when I cried. Papa says men are not able to watch the woman they love cry without doing something about it.

Teddy's been drying my tears since I was born.

I pull away slightly. There's a wet spot on his shirtfront. I smear it with my hand, trying futilely to rub it away. It's ignored by both of us seconds later.

Narcissa Malfoy stands, teary-eyed and frail, and he leads me to a seat. In the few conversations I have had with the woman, Mrs. Malfoy never seemed less than a flawless, aristocratic wife. It's startling to see her look so shaken.

He doesn't mind. He always had a soft spot for the Malfoys, as they did him. I once saw Lucius Malfoy smile at a joke he made. I was fifteen then, and my daily thoughts were occupied by daydreams of my wedding to Ian Lartins, the Auror who had saved fourteen people from an ambush attack in the heart of London.

Only a few things have changed since then.

He's holding my hand now. Teddy, not Ian. Though, ironically, he and Teddy--I have heard via Uncle Harry's regular letters--are now the best of friends. After reading that owl, I imagined them sitting in a pub together laughing about crazed missions and, of course, me.

Teddy wrote me only once in the eight months I have been gone. He was drunk, I knew, when he wrote it; the note was scrawled on a Leaky Cauldron napkin. He didn't say anything other than he wished I was there to make him dinner, but at the bottom, he signed "Love, Your Teddy" just as he had on every letter he had sent to me since he was six and learned to write.

I cried for eight hours straight that night.

I can barely hear Mrs. Malfoy now. My soft cries are the only thing I can hear, like they echo in my soul. It's all very sad. Andromeda had always been like another grandmother to me. She loved me like she loved Teddy: She had been saying that she couldn't wait to see our wedding day since I was born.

I don't need to point out that she never will now.

The service is suddenly over with this thought, and I pause, wondering what I should do now. Teddy answers for me, taking my hand and leading me away from the clearing. He Apparates us away wordlessly; I'm clinging to his arm and his hand is secured around my lower back.

Our feet land, and though my eyes are still closed, I know instantly where we are. It's easy to forget faces or voices, but smells stay with you. No where else on Earth smells like knitted afghans and warm apple pie.

It's Andromeda's house, which I suppose is now Teddy's.

It's not even seconds after my tired eyes flutter open when I feel his lips on mine, his forehead knotted and his hand caressing my neck. It feels good, really good, but I'm not positive it's the best idea. Still, I certainly don't try to stop him.

I've never been able to outrightly lie to Teddy, but now, when he asks me if this is okay, I tell him it's perfect. It's a half-truth, but I don't need to tell him that, I don't need to add to his pain. Because while we may not be Teddy and Victoire tonight, this kiss does show me that we will be.

After all, you have to leave to come back.


	3. Drink

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D R I N K

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It's been a week since I returned from France.

My parents gave me space from the rest of the family, but I knew they expected me to want to interact with people besides them. I had not planned on leaving the house until I had to get back to work on the first of the month.

But it's Aunt Hermione's birthday.

So my black shoes don't exactly match my teal dress, but I have the excuse that most of my things are in boxes. Besides, most of my family wouldn't notice at all. Most.

My mother is beaming at me when I walk into the party though I know she is evaluating my appearance. I can tell by her raised eyebrows that she doesn't approve. I immediately take a sharp turn out of her line of view to say happy birthday to Aunt Hermione. Molly and Roxanne are alone in a back table when I reach them.

"'Bout time you got here." Roxanne scoffs. She hates me: She thinks it was wrong of me to go back to France after Teddy's grandmother's funeral. She stands, muttering that about going to step outside for a smoke before James, Lucy and Fred arrive.

Molly and I both turn up our noses at the idea of smoking, but we remain silent. Recently, I have had the closest relationship with Molly; she visited me many times in France. She doesn't feel the need to fill every second with useless chatter.

"I need a drink," she mumbles after a few moments, and I agree. The waiter is over to us with one flick of my hair.

Roxanne returns when we are on our third drink with Fred and James in tow. Fred and James are nearly smashed. I expected as much from them–the near second they each turned of-age they Apparated to the closest pub.

Suddenly, I am wondering what my brother and sister and the rest of my cousins are doing at Hogwarts. At this time, they could be eating dinner or finishing their homework in the common room. More possibly, attending Quidditch practice and detentions. Two places I rarely was, but certainly, two places Teddy always was.

I empty another glass, and then another, feeling the slow, dull ache rising in my stomach. It's hard to think of him, of the things I've done. Roxanne is probably right to hate me. I hate me.

Molly leaves a short while later. She finishes her fourth drink and rushes to meet her boyfriend outside. I look down at my glass and can't remember how many it's been, but Papa told me yesterday that Molly's boyfriend asked Uncle Percy for his permission, so I take another drink. We all know what that means.

Roxanne takes Fred home before Aunt Angelina finds him drunk, so it's just me and James and this girl his age who is sitting in his lap. I groan and stalk away.

I forget sometimes, like when I am angry and have been drinking, to concentrate on not overwhelming guys with my Veela beauty. I normally keep it reigned in, but I don't feel exactly normal when I ask for another drink.

It didn't end well, and Papa is by my side in an instant, throwing out the waiter who got a little too close. My face burns with embarrassment as I remember where we are and why we are here. I immediately feel tears welling in my eyes, and I bolt from the room.

He's waiting for me outside the girl's loo. I take in his loosened tie, his crooked smile, his disheveled brown hair, and I dissolve into raking sobs. He is pulling me into his arms, rubbing my back. He leaves kisses in my forehead, my hair.

I ask him why he doesn't hate me.

He lifts my chin, tucking a hair behind my ear and kisses me. Kisses me so that I can taste the brandy he drank, can feel the way he missed me, can feel at home for the first time this week. I bit my lip when pulls away, leaning heavily on the wall behind me.

He turns and picks a bottle of amber liquid and pours a capful of it, handing it to me.

"It's Cognac," he whispers, leaning close to my ear and smiling. "It's French, in case you've already forgotten."

I stare at it stupidly for a moment before he teases that he would drink it, if I preferred. I take it with already-wobbly hands and down it in one. He chuckles and pours himself one. I pull his red tie so he stumbles closer to me, making him slosh the Cognac on my dress. "I don't want to be here anymore."

I press my lips to his, running my hands up his chest and twining them in his hair. He groans, and I suppose, probably, I am forgetting something as I had earlier with the bartender. I don't care.

In the time it takes for him to blink, our feet are landing on Andromeda's floor. This whole scene feels entirely too familiar, but the combination of him and alcohol is blocking all of my inhibitions.

I take the bottle from his hand and take one last drink before stumbling to his bedroom.


End file.
